ingly. "But no," he added, in a more serious tone. "The truth is, I had to visit a neighbour of yours on the upper floor, and thought I might as well take you on the way. How are you?"
Oblomov shook his head despondently. "Poorly, doctor," he said. "I have just been thinking of consulting you. My stomach will scarcely digest anything, there is a pain in the pit of it, and my breath comes with difficulty."
"Give me your wrist," said the doctor. He closed his eyes and felt the patient's pulse. "And have you a cough?" he inquired .
"Yes at night-time, but more especially while I am at supper."
"Hm! And does your heart throb at all, or your head ache?" He then added other questions, bowed his bald pate, and subsided into profound meditation. At length he straightened himself with a jerk, and said with an air of decision—
"Two or three years more, of this room, of lying about, of eating rich, heavy foods, and you will have a stroke."
Oblomov started.
"Then what ought I to do, doctor? Tell me, for Heaven's sake!"
5
